No title yet...wrote a sonnet, no real prescribed format (rhyme scheme, iambic pentameter etc).
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He has sat there for an eternity,
Chair, stone and man alone in the corner.
The chisel an extension of his hand
That chips away at his razor sharp vision.
A beautiful face appears from the rock,
Just as he had envisioned in his minds eye.
Against the vision his hand slips, how?
The stone becomes stone, imperfect again.
The man is gone, a finite shelf life.
The statue still stands in the corner
While the earth reclaims itself, green feelers
Creeping and dragging it down slowly.
A ruined dream discarded and lifeless,
A perfect definition for what life is.